The sleeping men were aroused. There was much to do before morning. Two hours before dawn, all his preparations were made and Welbeloved rolled himself in his cloak and was instantly asleep. His eyes had hardly closed when he was awakened. Or at least, that is how it seemed to him, although the grey streaks in the sky told him that he must have slept for an hour or two.
The Condesa and her maid were tending the fire and he was grateful to accept the hot liquid that was presented to him. Those men not on guard crowded round for their share and volunteered to help with this, fetch wood for that; any little thing that would bring them to her notice, help them compete for her attention. They all, most evidently thought the world of her, and she joked and encouraged them as she handed out their food. Never any question of condescension on her part, just a natural acceptance of her inborn and unquestioned right to command and direct. Welbeloved shook his head, wondering, and not for the first time, how some people had such natural authority, while in others it was so resented that it was the cause of whole nations rising in revolt.
He quickly put all such thoughts from him and concentrated on the task before him. Three men positioned close to the town and along the road would warn him by simple signals of the movements of the French. He stationed the rest in a commanding position where the road bent and passed closely alongside the river, with a steep wooded slope rising on the other side. They settled down to wait.
There was a thin, miserable, misty rain to greet the unwilling dawn. It dripped from the needles of the pines and from the almost bare branches of the chestnuts. The men fussed about with the breeches of their rifles, protecting them from the damp as best they could. Welbeloved stared gloomily at the dirty grey sky and prayed for drier weather. There would be a high proportion of misfires in these conditions and his men were too few in number to take on a company of chasseurs without the hundred percent support of their deadly weapons.
He could feel the damp finding its way inside his collar and down his neck while he lay waiting, overlooking a long stretch of road sloping gently towards him and following faithfully the drop in the river as it hurried down to its confluence with the Duero. Visibility in the humid atmosphere was only three or four hundred yards and he wondered idly how effective his signalling system would be. Mentally he shrugged. His men would adapt to the situation as they had been trained to do. The news might be a little later than he expected, but they would find a way of informing him when, and in what direction, the French were moving.
A sound caught his attention and he lifted his head, seeking to identify it. The trees and the damp mist distorted the direction, but it was unmistakably horses hooves getting louder very quickly. No more than one horse though. He peered up the road and grunted with satisfaction as the beast galloped into sight with the drab-uniformed figure of Corporal Atkins spurring it on. Welbeloved rose from cover and waved him over. Even mounted, Atkins was several feet below him and had to look up as he reined in and saluted.
There was a broad grin on his face, from which two or three of his discoloured teeth gleamed forth. “You was right sir. The Frogs is acomin’ this way. I hestimate they’ll be ‘ere in abart twenty minits.” He frowned in concentration, collecting his thoughts to make a complete report as he had been taught. “There’s ‘alf-a-dozen of ‘em art in front, wiv anover thirty be’ind, pr’aps a ‘undred yards back. Then there’s the coach sir, wiv the Markis adrivin’ and the rest of the Frogs – thirty to forty I think – afollowin’ close be’ind.”
Welbeloved dismissed him and he rode off to leave his horse with the rest of the animals, before adding his weight to the ambush party farther down the road. Welbeloved himself relaxed. The French commander had acted as he guessed he would and action was now inevitable. Whether it would go as he planned remained to be seen. There were more chasseurs than he had thought and his firepower in these wet conditions would be far less effective. Instinctively, he checked the wrappings on his faithful Ferguson and whistled softly.
MacKay dropped down beside him and vanished again just as quickly, having received terse and concise instructions. Welbeloved made himself comfortable again and watched and waited.
The first few horsemen of the French vanguard came slowly into view, walking their horses well apart from each other and searching the cover at the sides of the road for any signs of the enemy that was surely waiting for them somewhere. Welbeloved watched them go. This was not the sort of warfare they understood. His men were spread in two groups, half a mile apart, but not one of them would be visible to the questing eyes of the French. Thirty years earlier, the American sharpshooters with their Kentucky rifles had caused terrible casualties among the British redcoats in exactly similar conditions. Now he hoped to teach the French the same kind of lesson.
The vanguard disappeared round the bend in the road where his second group was waiting. They would be allowed to continue unmolested; it was the coach and driver that Welbeloved wanted, together with its cargo, which he hoped would still be the royal regalia.
The leading horsemen of the main body were now in sight and he pulled his whistle from his pocket and waited. Almost at once there was the crackle of rifle fire coming from behind the chasseurs. Welbeloved’s orders had stressed that his first ambush party should wait until the rear of the French company was level with their position before opening fire and they were to concentrate on the officers and sergeants.
There came the answering flat cracks of the enemy’s carbine muskets. He smiled grimly. Hitting a target from horseback with a short-barrelled, smooth-bore musket would need extraordinary luck for a superb marksman. The effect was more on the morale of the chasseurs than on their potential targets.
The sudden attack was having the effect he had hoped for. The leading party broke into a trot and the coach came rumbling on behind, followed at a distance by a loose mass of the rearguard, still trying to exchange shots with the hidden snipers, while on the move. He blew a long blast on his whistle and cocked his rifle, searching for whoever appeared to be in command around the coach. He snapped off a shot before his powder had a chance to get wet and saw one of the saddles suddenly empty.
Chasseurs and coach horses were now galloping and would soon be out of sight around the bend in the road. He blew a long second blast on his whistle. Almost immediately, beyond the bend, there was the sound of an explosion, echoing above the noise of the hooves and the carriage wheels. During the night, his men had loosened the roots of a large tree overstanding the road, until it was almost ready to fall. A small charge of the captured powder had hopefully completed the task and the road ought to be blocked.
Welbeloved rose and hurried through the trees to where he could observe events. A scene of chaos met his eyes. The tree, a large pine, had fallen square across the road, scattering the horsemen in front of the coach, but giving the Marqués no time to rein in his team. The coach had run full tilt into the tree and turned over. Some of the chasseurs were on one side of the barrier and some on the other. All were under fire from hidden marksmen and were milling about in complete confusion. A small group of dismounted men made a rush for the trees, screaming defiance and brandishing sabres and carbines. It was a brave but futile gesture. Two died before they reached cover and the others simply vanished, disappearing into the trees and not coming out again, overwhelmed by shadowy figures they hardly saw until too late.
The thirty or so men of the rearguard had followed up behind the coach, sweeping forward into a scene of devastation with men and horses scattered in all directions. The leading riders of the group hardly hesitated. With bellows of encouragement they put their horses to the barrier, clearing it easily and galloping off out of sight, followed by the majority of the surviving chasseurs.
All that now remained on the upperside of the barrier was the upturned coach with one of its wheels still slowly rotating; a scattering of bodies, both dead and wounded, and two or three small groups of dismounted chasseurs crouching behind the coach or their dead hor
ses and trying to return fire with their short carbines. As Welbeloved watched, one of them exposed just a little too much of himself and the crack of a rifle and the sprawl of his body followed each other in rapid order.
They were in a hopeless situation and recognised it as such. A rag tied to the end of a carbine and waved energetically, sought surrender and Welbeloved bellowed the order to cease-fire. His men remained in cover as he made the chasseurs throw their weapons in the river, leaving all their remaining ammunition. He pointed towards where their comrades had disappeared and gave the curt command: “Allez-vous en!” Prisoners would have been an intolerable burden and he couldn’t just shoot them out of hand. There was little alternative to sending them after their friends.
They needed no second bidding. Scrambling over the tree trunk they ran off down the road and disappeared from sight.
The rest of the enemy had not yet given up the fight. Dismounted men slipped through the cover of the trees, usually in twos, one man firing his carbine while the other advanced to find cover in the manner perfected by the tirailleurs. It was a short but bloody encounter. The French were shot or cut down by an enemy they had no hope of seeing until too late, and they retreated precipitously, leaving more of their green-clad bodies stretched on the ground.
After that they gave the riflemen best and retired to lick their wounds. Welbeloved posted a guard to warn of any further hostilities and led a party to look for the Marqués. When they found him they thought he was dead. He had been thrown from the coach at the moment it had run full tilt into the tree and he was lying on his face, quite still, with his body twisted at an unnatural angle, draped over the trunk of the tree. Welbeloved felt for a pulse and he groaned and stirred, then writhed in agony as the pain hit him.
No-one had any medical training, though MacKay and Welbeloved himself had a great deal of experience in dealing with wounds and broken bones. MacKay held Don Pedro still, or as still as he could by exerting all his strength, allowing Welbeloved to make a careful examination. It needed no experience at all to see that the left leg was broken above the knee, but he satisfied himself that there was no other major damage, other than maybe a couple of cracked or even broken ribs.
They eased him down onto the ground and cut away his breeches. Thankfully the break looked to be clean and the ends of the bone had not broken the skin, but the powerful muscles of the thigh had pulled the leg into a grotesque shape. Welbeloved grimaced. “We’re going to have to pull that like hell Sergeant, if there’s to be any chance of splinting and strapping it. Get a couple of men to hold him down, but mind his ribs while yew do it. I’d like yew to pull as hard as yew can while I line up the bone and secure it with splints. Give him some leather to bite on. He’s not going to enjoy this at all.”
One man held his head and shoulders; another lay across his right leg and belly. MacKay took hold of his foot and waited for Welbeloved to give the word to pull. Stout splints had been cut and were ready to hand. Strips of cloth for binding the splints were also ready, cut from the clothes of some of the dead. Welbeloved checked everything and glanced at Don Pedro’s face. His teeth were clamped around a doubled leather belt and he was just beginning to comprehend how badly hurt he was and the torment he was about to endure. His eyes were large and pleading.
Welbeloved took a deep breath and clenched his teeth, hissing through them to MacKay. “Right Sergeant!” MacKay braced himself and tightened his grip, pulling strongly and firmly and trying to maintain as steady and even a pull as he could. A thin, shrill scream forced its way past the leather in Don Pedro’s mouth, then fortunately he fainted and was silent.
Welbeloved placed his hands on his thigh, closing his eyes and concentrating, feeling for the broken ends of the bone. His touch was surprisingly sensitive and in spite of the enormous pressure being exerted by the heavy thigh muscles, MacKay’s great strength held them stretched while the ends were guided together once more. They were held in place until Hickson could place the splints on either side and bandage them firmly into position, then lash both legs together to give them additional support.
A stretcher was lashed together from poles cut from the trees. The Marqués, still unconscious, was placed on it and carried back to their temporary camp. The royal regalia was still in the chest on the coach and was split up and distributed on the backs of packhorses following on behind. The coach had to be abandoned. Two of its wheels were completely smashed by the impact on the tree and there would be no hope in any case of being able to drive it along the difficult paths they would now be forced to follow.
None of them had any illusions. As soon as the remnants of the chasseurs reached the main body of the army, units would be despatched to hunt them down. Apart from their natural desire for revenge for the mauling they had received, Bonaparte’s men would now know about the royal regalia and the importance of the two captives who had been snatched from them. Napoleon would want both the Marqués and the regalia to help support his brother’s claim to the Spanish throne. A few hundred men to teach the riflemen a lesson and recapture the Marqués, the Condesa and the regalia, would not even be missed from the thousands of men in his armies.
They left the French wounded in as much comfort as they could manage. Their friends would no doubt return for them eventually. Sadly, they had casualties themselves. Two of the riflemen were dead. One had taken a musket ball in the eye and the other had been in the wrong place when a chasseur had charged his horse blindly into the trees. A flying hoof had snapped his neck as he lay concealed in the undergrowth. Both bodies were taken back to the camp and prepared for burial before they moved off.
It was at this point that the Condesa approached Welbeloved, somewhat diffidently, but with a determined look in her eye. “All my baggage has been left in the town Captain. Your men have told me that none of it had been packed in the coach, and that means that the only clothes that my maid and I have to wear are these French uniforms, which are hardly appropriate.”
Welbeloved frowned. Surely she was not going to make a fuss about her clothes at this stage? It would be impossible to go back to the town to reclaim them. He cleared his throat, feeling a certain embarrassment. “I regret Condesa, that there is nothing I can do about that at the moment, but I assure yew that as soon as we can enter a town without having to fight the French, we will find apparel more suited to your sex.”
She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses, and then suddenly realising what he must be thinking, she laughed softly and musically. “Captain, you mistake my meaning. Neither my maid nor myself could possibly object to wearing anything that will help us get away, but we don’t like wearing anything that is French. What I want to know is whether your men would object if we exchanged these uniforms for the two that their unfortunate comrades were wearing, but won’t need any more? It will mean that we can ride with you as part of your small company, and if you will teach us to use the rifles, we can be a help rather than an encumbrance. Please let us at least get rid of these hateful French clothes.”
It seemed such a good idea that Welbeloved almost agreed on the spot, but mindful of the feelings of his men, he walked over and consulted MacKay. He had long since come to terms with the fact that British soldiers and sailors were a strange mixture. On the one hand they could be ruthless and terrible fighters, while the other side of their nature showed a sentimental attitude towards the established order of things. You could impose the harshest possible discipline on them and they would accept it without question, but they could and would become resentful and rebellious if due and traditional formalities were not observed wherever they were expected.
They could accept death and mutilation as part of the inevitable consequences of life in the army or navy, but would insist on proper reverence and appropriate respect to comrades being buried, either at sea or in some hastily scratched grave in an inhospitable land.
He had learned to accept this as part of the make-up of the men he led, without ever completely
understanding them. He was too much of a pragmatist to comprehend the feelings behind such apparently irrational behaviour, but he knew from experience that they could not be ignored.
In this case MacKay was able to confirm that there would be no problem. Some of the men were faintly scandalised at the idea of a lady wearing men’s clothes, but fully approved of the change from the French uniforms. Their comrades were interred, shrouded in blankets and with a short ceremony. Their uniforms were quickly altered to provide a rough but more comfortable fit for the two new recruits.
CHAPTER 10
Don Pedro was conscious again and moaning constantly with the pain in his leg and chest. He had been swaddled in blankets and cloaks to keep out the cold and damp, but was shivering with shock as he greedily swallowed the generous measures of rough brandy that were offered.
Dredging his early memories for the designs of travois that he had seen in his youth among the Indian tribes, Welbeloved ordered several long, pliant staves cut from the trees lining the river. Between them they contrived a workable litter, lashed together and suspended fore and aft between two of the captured horses. It was a crude but effective arrangement with the Marqués strapped immobile and by now insensibly drunk, swaying awkwardly but safely as they picked their slow way northwards towards the foothills of the inhospitable mountains barring the way towards the sea.
The Condesa proved to be a competent horsewoman. Welbeloved would have anticipated no less, but even so, had expected her to find it strange to sit astraddle when he could guarantee that she had ridden sidesaddle all her life. In contrast, Isabella her maid, had never ridden a horse before and spent the first hour clinging desperately to the saddle of the most docile beast they could find. Hickson had contrived to take her under his wing, riding just in front and holding her reins, encouraging her to move in rhythm with the horse and exhorting her to greater efforts when the effects of a couple of hours in the saddle were beginning to abrade and strain muscles she never knew she had.
A Despite of Hornets Page 10